


La Douleur Exquise

by raggedypond



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Action, Angst, Character Death, Comfort, Drama, Elamy, F/M, Fluff, Hurt, Pain, Romance, Time Travel, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-21 07:50:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raggedypond/pseuds/raggedypond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rory dies. Amy is stuck in New York, in the 1930s. Left completely alone, she realises she's been in love with the Doctor all along and goes looking for him. Ready to tear time and space apart for him, she finds out just how much love costs and how much she is ready to pay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New York, 1933

**Author's Note:**

> la douleur exquise - (FRENCH) the heart-wrenching pain when you love somebody you you can't have
> 
> The idea just hit me and I couldn't let it go. I really hope that you like it.

The sterile odour of hospital was the only thing that penetrated through my messed up thoughts; a disgusting, nauseating smell that reached toward the safest, most secret places of my mind and made me sick to the bones. A clock was ticking, its nasty tic-tocking hammering my skull. It was as though it was counting the seconds left to Rory’s death.

A terrible accident, they had said. A tragedy. They were going to try to save him, of course, but their hopes weren’t high. 

I curled up in the uncomfortable chair, my thoughts not at all concentrated on my dying husband. I rested my chin on my knees and tried to feel guilty. Rory was there; my Rory, injured and dying, and inside of me, there was nothing but hope. Hope that I would finally be free. Hope that once he was gone, I would be able to do the one thing I had wholeheartedly wanted my entire life. I sat there, in one of his old jackets and in my dressing-gown, my hair tied in a messy bun, and prayed for it to be over. It was the 1930s, they had no actual chance of saving him. 

I had had hours to think about it. When I’d found out, I had cried; I had bawled like a baby. But then this hope, this feeling, had nested in my head and it had grown now.

All my life, ever since he fell from the sky in my garden, I had loved the Doctor. I had loved him with my heart and soul, I had loved him more than life itself. And then there was Rory: good Rory; nice Rory; sweet, perfect Rory. Everyone had tried to persuade me that the Doctor wasn’t real, that I was mad. I guess that even Rory had thought I was as off my bloody rocker. But he had been there for me, always. And he had grown to love me. I had, also, developed feelings for him, of sorts, but not love. Not really. He made me feel safe, he gave me relief, and, up until the moment the Doctor came crashing into my life, I had believed that I could be happy with Rory. And then my raggedy man had shown me planets and stars, the future and the past, and he had shown me a new way to live my life. So I had realised that even though I had feelings for Rory, my raggedy Doctor was the one I would ever, ever truly love. 

But then again, loving someone means to sacrifice your happiness for theirs. The only thing I had ever wanted was for the Doctor to be happy. Whether he ever loved me, I would never know, but one thing I knew: he wanted me to be with Rory, to be happy with him. And so that was what I did. I pretended to live a happy, mundane, monotonous life as Amelia Williams, a loving wife. My heart wanted me to be Amy Pond, a faithful companion and lover. But I never had the guts to tell the Doctor. When the time for choices had come, when it was Rory or the Doctor, my raggedy man had River. He had looked so happy with her that I couldn’t dare stand between them. I had once again accepted misery; I had traded my happiness for the Doctor’s. It made sort of happy, his happiness.   
But now Rory was dying. Rory was going to leave me alone, without a safe place to crash, without a sanctuary. In this, I had seen an opportunity. An opportunity to, for once in my life, fight for my well-being, to claim mine the only man I’d ever wanted.

Rory was lying there, dying, and there I was, plotting ways to find my raggedy man. I hated myself, I felt this gut-wrenching guilt. But the decision I had made, to go looking for the Doctor, in a way, overshadowed all other feelings. For years I had felt la douleur exquise, and now was my time to be happy.

Free.

Once again, I felt a tinge of guilt. If Rory hadn’t been hurt, I would’ve never even thought of snatching this chance. I realized I was crying, tears cascading down my white cheeks. What was worse, however, was the fact that I couldn’t really tell why that was. For all I knew, it could be happy crying. It made me feel like a cold-hearted bitch. 

That was Rory, after all. I had loved him- God, no, I still loved him, and his possible death, even though it meant my freedom, was hurting me, of course it wasn’t happy crying! I cursed myself for even thinking this. 

I needed to sort some things out. First, I told myself, and I forced myself to be completely emotionless while stating these things, Rory was dying. How did this make me feel? Sad. Desperate. Upset. Second, if Rory did die, I would go looking for the Doctor. Whatever it cost me. How did this make me feel? Happy. Determined. Relieved. Set free.

I realized how disgusting it seemed; it seemed as though Rory’s death was going to make me happy in some way. Was it?

I wanted him to live and I wanted him to die; I loved him and I didn’t; I was sad and happy at the same time; and I didn’t know how this was possible. I thought my head was about to explode. At this precise moment, I realized that two women lived inside me; Amelia Williams and Amy Pond simultaneously lived in my head, fighting, hating each other and I knew that I had to choose which one to take over. 

Lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t noticed the man standing next to me. 

“Mrs. Williams, I presume?” he said in a deep, heavy voice which bore the mark of a chain-smoker. A mane of grey hair surrounded his dark, wrinkled face. Underneath his thick eyebrows, a pair of bright blue eyes stared at me, radiating pain. His lips, hidden beneath a bushy moustache uttered something. I heard a shriek, and I found myself on the floor, sobbing. 

Whether it as Amelia or Pond that was broken, I couldn’t tell. Maybe it was the both of them, sitting on the ground, wailing. I sat there, two people at once, crying, trying to find ways to cope with the consequences of what had just happened. Death had a way of hitting you right there where it knew it would hurt most. I was slightly aware of the fact that the floor beneath me was cold; it was draining the warmth from my body just like the words I had just heard had drained my consciousness. I was standing there but I wasn’t really. I was numb, motionless, and I just sat and wept. 

The outcome of the situation came easy; Amelia wanted to die. Without her Rory, she was nothing. Amy was damaged, heartbroken and upset, sobbing and shocked, but she wanted to live. She wanted to move on. For so long she had been a slave but now, she could finally be free.   
What I knew now was that I had to bury them both; Rory and Amelia Williams, loving husband and wife.  
*

I was standing in the middle of the bedroom. I didn’t know what to take with me. I didn’t know where I was going, and the only thing I knew was that I was never coming back. I had put on the clothes I had been wearing when the angels sent us back. In a rucksack I had put some clothes and all the money Rory and I had, and that was pretty much everything I would need. I pressed my hand to the necklace hidden under my top and I felt my eyes fill with tears. 

The previous day I had gone to the undertaker, a stout, dark man with a gloomy face and sunburnt skin. I had told him a made-up story about my being Melody Williams, the daughter of Amelia and Rory, who needed to be buried, how Amelia’s body had been destroyed and it was only Rory’s that could be put in the grave. I had told him what to write on the gravestone; it was over now. Amelia Williams was dead, buried six feet under, next to her dead husband. 

And there I was, on my way to find the only man I loved.


	2. London, 1933

The fierce wind was blowing, angrily tugging at my clothes, nibbling my skin, making my hair swirl and fall like a veil in front of my face. As I went along the dark cobblestoned street, just a few feet wide, I cursed the British weather. As much as I had hated New York, the wind there hadn’t been as cold, the sky hadn’t been as dark and overcast, the atmosphere hadn’t been as hostile.  
Everything about London in November was appallingly depressing. Most of the time, clouds, grey, stormy and heavy, hung above the muddy city; it didn’t help that it was almost constantly raining, nor that a dense mist was filling the overcrowded streets. What was worse, it was winter, so smoke floated over the rooftops, drowning everything in a sickening smell. 

I looked up; the night sky, usually covered with millions of stars and constellations that I had come to know by heart, was now hidden by a dark grey veil of clouds. The ink blue of the actual sky was impossible to see. I knew that any time soon it would start snowing; quite honestly, I preferred the rain. The London snow was pure and serene for a couple of minutes, then the crowds and cars turned it to slush, and this added to the depression and unpleasantness of the city.

My mood was pretty much similar to the weather. I had spent five weeks in London, desperately trying to get a piece of information, something I could use; anything. I had no idea what to do. I had absolutely impulsively gone on a search for a time-traveller without thinking that I could – well, I simply had no ability to travel through time. The mere thought of quietly living in London, waiting for the Doctor to show had seemed disgusting from the second it had occurred to me, but as time dragged, I was beginning to realise that I was looking for a needle in an impossibly huge haystack.

The heels of my shoes clattered as I walked down the street, wrapping my coat tighter around my body. It wasn’t so much a street but rather a space between two buildings. I was surprised how low I had fallen; I hated what I was doing but I guess I just had no other way. “The Rose Thorn” was a dirty place, loud and smelly, and mainly visited by travelers and strangers, as the bartender gave rooms for rent on the upper floor. The second I entered the bar, everything went quiet. I suppose they didn’t really see women at here, rather than the occasional call girls, so their surprise at my sight was a natural thing.

I had grown used to the bar atmosphere: cigarette smoke hanging in midair, the persistent odour of sweat and alcohol, and foul, unbathed men, the disgusting noise that people considered music, shouts and screams, and indecently loud laughter. It was boiling hot in here, partly because of all the people stuffed in the small room, and partly because of the fireplace that was flickering, but by no means burning. 

As I stepped over the threshold, the noises exploded once again, and I dived into the sea of smells and smoke. After I had found a table distant enough from the crowds, in a dark and fairly quiet corner of the bar, I finally took off my coat. I was disgusted by what I was wearing, I really was, but my body seemed to be the only weapon I possessed, so I used it. I had, of course, drawn a line that I was not willing to cross.  
I might be showing an indecent part of my body but it was mine, and I had no desire to let any of these men touch it. They were scum, a gross mob that savored in watching my curves but as soon as they tried to get close to me, they ended up unconscious. It was a thing Rory had thought me, a mixture of certain medicines that could make a person fall into a heavy sleep for up to twelve hours depending on their weight. I felt safer, knowing that I could knock out cold any of these men here but it still disgusted me that I had to dress like this.

I had used a few of my dresses, a pair of scissors, needles and thread, and lace, and I had made a masterpiece; I had created a couple of outfits which, even in the twenty-first century would be labeled scandalous. My licentious clothing, the red hair, the hue of my pallid skin and the shamelessly red lipstick had been enough to make myself noticed. I had been going around, asking about a goofy but handsome man, a bit crazy, who travelled through time. The story of me had started circulating through bars and inns and people were beginning to recognize me anywhere I went; I wanted this.  
This would make it easier for whoever knew something to find me; but tonight I was the one hunting. Rumor had it that a certain mister H. was running through town, a person so handsome and so bold that every woman wanted him. This mysterious man had come from nowhere and was claiming to be going nowhere, so I had asked myself the question: when did he come from?

The certain gentleman, whose first name sadly, I had not managed to find out, was said to be a regular visitor to a few pubs and bars, as he occasionally liked to pop in London. “The Rose Thorn” appeared to be his favourite.

As I ordered a scotch and stared at the bar’s clientele, heavy thoughts filling my head, I wondered whether I was clutching at straws. Chances were high that this mister H. was just a rich man who had a mistress in London and fancied visiting her and then going for a drink. It sounded a story much more mundane and possible than the one in which he turned out to be a time-traveller who could help me find the Doctor.  
A waitress brought me my drink and eyed me suspiciously; she was probably worried that I wouldn’t have money to pay for it. I rolled my eyes and I slid a golden coin across the table. The girl, a skinny, underfed child at about sixteen, with dirty thin hair that framed her skull-like face, opened her mouth in astonishment and her bony fingers went for the coin.

“Not so fast,” I snapped at her. “That’s for the entire night. Plus, you will tell me when mister H. comes.”

If he comes, I thought darkly.

“Oooh,” said the girl and her face darkened. But when I had mentioned H., her eyes had lit up hopefully and that was when I knew that this girl was hopelessly in love with this man, whoever he was. “Is he your husband?”

The slightest tinge of jealousy could be heard in her trembling voice. I gave her a mysterious smile and simply sipped from my glass. The amber liquid was fiery and burnt down my throat as I swallowed; its taste was so familiar by now that I didn’t really pay attention to the sensation. 

The night dragged on. Passengers came and went, drinks were spilt, fights were broken down. I sat there, quietly, drinking my scotch, and I waited. By midnight, I was downing my third glass and I was starting to feel a bit sleepy and annoyed. I hated this. I lifted my glass; it had left a wet circle on the wooden table and I started drawing patterns on the surface. Heaving a sigh, I waved at the waitress to order another one. At this moment the door opened and a man entered but I didn’t really know how the mysterious man looked so I had no way of knowing whether it was him. The skinny girl nearly ran to my table, her mouse brown hair swinging by her flushed face. She put the glass in front of me and, her eyes burning, leaned in and whispered heatedly. 

“Mister H. just came in,” she said. Her skeleton hands clutched the edge of the table and she nodded excitedly. I pulled out a silver coin and laid it in front of the girl.

“I will give you this one if you go to him and tell him that I wish to have a conversation with him.”

Greed and envy were written all over her reddened face; she was torn apart between the desire to get the money and her jealousy. I knew how to deal with this. 

“If that’s what you want,” I shrugged and I started pulling the coin back toward me. Fear and despair flickered in her eyes. She reached out and grabbed it, and before I could stop her, he slender legs were carrying her to the mysterious gentleman. 

A few minutes had passed when the man approached me. He was rather tall and well-built, with messy black hair and startlingly blue eyes, and was dressed in a rather unsuitable way for the era he was living in. There was an odd air about him, as though he was made of innuendos, as though his mere breathing was an innuendo.  
Gracefully, he slid into the seat next to me and gave me a sparkling smile.

“Hello, there,” he said and winked at me. “Captain Jack Harness, at your services.”

I glared at him, then sipped from my drink. I had no actual idea what to say; my confidence had evaporated. 

“I am looking for someone,” I finally uttered. “And I need your help.”

“And who might that be?” he arched an eyebrow, clearly interested.

“A man, called the Doctor. He… um, he travels in a blue police box-“

“He’s always had a taste for women, that man!” Captain Jack laughed loudly. “I am surprised, however, that you’re not blonde and wearing a Union Jack T-shirt.” 

I didn’t really understand what he meant by that but the tiniest ray of hope penetrated through my desperation. Had I finally managed to achieve something in my search? 

“No, I’m not blonde and he clearly hasn’t shown the slightest interest in blonde women ever since I’ve met him,” I shrugged. Jack Harness seemed rather amused. 

“So he’s changed, huh? How does he look now?”

A smile curled my lips at the mere thought of the Doctor; I remembered every inch of him, his scent, his warmth, the way his body felt, pressed tightly to mine. The taste of his lips. My heart ached as all these things flooded my mind. I sighed painfully before giving him an answer.

“Floppy hair,” I began, “a very weird pointy chin and no eyebrows.”

I giggled as his stupid face floated in front of him; I felt tears welling up in my eyes and drank from my glass to chase them away.

“He wears a bowtie.”

“A bowtie?”

“Yes, a bowtie, and a tweed suit. And he insists on wearing funny hats; stetsons and fezzes and all that.”

Jack was laughing but I was trying – very hard – to fight back the tears as memories of my Doctor flashed in my head. The Captain seemed to have noticed as he stopped laughing and gave me a sympathetic look.

“Oh, cut it out,” I snapped, “I am up to here with people giving me that look, I don’t need it.”

He nodded and pursed his lip; he downed his glass and then looked back at me. I could feel the dull brown eyes of the waitress burning into my back from across the bar.

“Sorry,” Jack finally said. “It’s just that I have seen this look on two other women’s faces. In the first case, he loved her more than life itself. In the second case, he wouldn’t even so much as look at her in that way.”  
I suddenly felt nauseated; I knew that the Doctor had had many faces but I had never thought that he had loved another woman. It was stupid of me, but I felt jealousy deep inside me, a beast that was roaring angrily.

“What happened to the woman he loved?” I found myself asking.

“He lost her,” Jack said sadly. “Poor Rose, she was fantastic.” 

I had never heard the Doctor mention her name; I supposed that different faces mean different men, different emotions, different lives. However, I felt a little betrayed. But then I remembered his arm around me, my head rested in his shoulder and his lips on my ear. You’re seared onto my hearts. A kiss on the forehead, his fingers rubbing my back. I didn’t really care about the other women in his life; I was only human and he was 1 200 years old. I had no right to interfere in his previous lives. I would be there for a mere second and then he would lose me, too, but I would make myself remembered. I was seared onto his hearts, after all.

“Anyways, how come you’re looking for him?”

“Weeping angels,” I said, nearly choking on the words. “They sent me back. He thinks I’m dead. And I’d rather die than live a life without him.”

We were quiet for a while.

“I am not really looking for him now, as you probably understand,” I sighed bitterly. “It’s hard looking for a time-traveller when you cannot travel.”

Captain Jack shifted uncomfortably in his seat and as he moved, the sleeve of his coat moved up a few inches. I saw a vortex manipulator, shiny and bright, my savior. I realized this was what I had been looking for, all along. I needed it, desperately. 

“Help me,” I begged, my hand reaching for his. “If you are a friend of his, I beg you to help me.”

He knew that my eyes were resting on the vortex manipulator. He knew what I wanted. Whether he would give it to me, however, was an entirely different question. Had it been me in his situation, I would’ve never even hesitated. But I didn’t know this man, I knew nothing about him; I just hoped that he would do what was right. I realized I had been hoping quite a lot recently. 

“I know I am a stranger, I know you barely know me and I know you have no reason to trust me but I-“

I broke down; what else could I say? I had nothing else left but to wait. 

Jack held his glass in his hands, his blue eyes staring into the liquid in it as though the answer was swimming in it. He finally sighed and took the manipulator off his wrist, then slid it across the table.

“Oh thank you, thank you, thank you,” I whispered; I was too afraid to raise my voice but my whispers would have to be enough. A small smile appeared on his face.

“I’ll give it back to you, I swear, as soon as I find the Doctor, we will come to you and I will give it back,” I managed to say before he stood up. He leaned in, his face inches from mine.

“Tell him I say ‘Hi’,” he whispered, he span on his heels and walked away. Midway, he turned around and winked at me, then proceeded to the door and left me all alone. I grabbed the vortex manipulator and steadied it on my wrist. 

As I walked out of “The Rose Thorn” and hurried back to the place I was temporarily living in, one thought was spinning in my mind. I had a vortex manipulator; I could travel through time. I would finally be able to actually start looking for my Doctor. As I walked along the street, my heart light with joy, snowflakes started to fall gracefully from the sky. I smiled widely and looked up, letting them fall on my face and melt down, leaving a sweet sensation on my skin.

I was so happy I could fly.


	3. London, 2012

The winter in 2012 London was not much different than the one in 1933 London. As I stood on the pavement, still a bit shocked by the fact that I had time-travelled on my own, snowflakes were falling down from the grey, depressingly clouded sky that hung over dirty, industrial London. It took me some time to adjust to being back in 21st century. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and listened to the surrounding sounds. I had, in a way, missed it: the noise, the crowds, Big Ben striking eleven in the distance. 

Sadly, my house – or, to be more accurate, Amelia’s house – was miles away from where I was standing, so I would have to take a cab. The place where I was was an alley between two houses, a few blocks down from the Houses of Parliament, on a busy road in the centre, so I figured it wouldn’t be hard to find a way to get home. I, however, had underestimated a certain fact; all the money I owned was from 1933. In other words, I was in the centre of London, penniless.

I was also starving and cold but these biological needs would have to wait. I needed to get to the house first. Walking was inevitable, so I wrapped my coat tightly around my shoulders and headed towards safety.  
Walking along the streets in the crisp and brisk morning air left me with plenty of time to plan my actions from now on. Naturally, my first reaction had been to come back to the place I had called home, but now I wondered exactly how reasonable my decision had been. There was no way the Doctor would still be here, so I figured it had been foolish to come. The best thing to do right now was to get some food and rest and think about it later. 

It took me about an hour and a half to get to the house. About a month had passed since the Doctor had come to take us to New York but nothing seemed to have changed. As I approached the door, the key unsteady in my shaky hand, my heart beat faster. I quickly unlocked the door and sneaked in.

Once I found myself inside the house, safe and warm, I heaved a sigh and pressed my back against a wall. In a few minutes I managed to recollect myself and turned the central heating on. Being here felt strange and I realized I couldn’t really feel like home anymore but I had to make do with the current situation. I went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Foolishly, childishly, I still thought that a cup of tea would make everything better; then I suddenly realised that the Doctor had once told me that. 

I felt warm when I figured out that it was his advice in timed like this that made me feel better; not the tea itself but the thought that the Doctor found tea comforting, and the thought that maybe he was somewhere, drinking tea as well, made me feel calmer.

Chasing all thoughts about him away, I rummaged through the refrigerator, even though I was quite sure there was nothing edible inside. I would have to make a trip to the shops. This thought made me sigh once again; I had grown fond of sighing recently. It expressed my emotions quite well.  
When I prepared the tea, I decided it was high time I went upstairs. I needed some clothes and some money, and something to do with my hands. I was going crazy, all alone with nothing to do and no one to talk to. 

I packed a leather carryall bag with some clothes I would most certainly need, and found myself crying and pressing a jumper to my face. I was so lonely that it hurt me; I could feel a black hole inside my heart that was slowly devouring everything. I couldn’t bear this much longer, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

I swore loudly; I hated being like this but I knew I was a ruin. Even if I found the Doctor, which I highly doubted, I wasn’t really sure he would want me anymore. At least not the way I was.  
Angrily wiping away my tears, I slid under the bed; Rory and I had hidden all the money we had there, in a shoebox. With my eyes closed, I felt for the box and finally found it. I snatched it, pulled it out and got out, sneezing and rubbing my nose. I sat cross-legged on the floor and opened the box; I had expected to find money inside it. Instead, I found a stack of photographs. I had forgotten that yet another box had been hidden there. In my haste to get out of the tiny, dusty and web-covered space under the bed, I had taken the wrong shoebox.

All of a sudden, I felt dizzy. Those photos were the ones that Rory had insisted we keep hidden: photos of the Doctor and us. Tears filled my eyes as I took them out of the box and pressed them to my heart.

Almost all of them were of me and the Doctor; Rory hated to be on the other side of the camera so he usually was the one who would snap the pictures. There were photos on planets, photos with aliens and photos of the past and the future. Tears were cascading down my face as I looked at them and I felt as though my heart was being stabbed repeatedly. Oh, those were the days.  
Finally, I got to the most recent photos, the ones we’d taken on my birthday. The Doctor had wanted to take me to a planet but I had begged him to come to Hyde Park with us and he had given in. The pictures told a beautiful story: we had had a picnic and after covering the Doctor’s face with more cake than any of us had eaten, he had started tickling me. Our tickling war had ended with a fall in the lake, which had led to a water fight and a very unhappy Rory with a camera.

I laid four of my favourite photos on the floor; on the first one, I was sitting on top of the Doctor, tickling him, and he was roaring with laughter, his body curled in a ridiculous position. The second one was the Doctor trying to throw me in the lake, his arms wrapped around my waist; I was kicking and screaming and laughing. The third was in the water: we were splashing each other, giggling like schoolchildren. On the last picture, the Doctor was carrying me on his back. I was holding on to him, a huge smile stretching my lips; he had thrown his head back laughing and water was dripping from both of us. 

As I stared at the photographs, my heart ached. I was once more reminded how much I loved this man, how much he meant to me, and it was almost painful. I picked a photo from my wedding on which the Doctor was kissing my forehead and for a second I imagined marrying him. Oh, how I wished…  
These five photographs I would take with me; I put the remaining in the shoebox but as I was about to push it back under the bed, I saw that I had left one out. It looked older than the others, and I couldn’t recall ever seeing any of the people on it.

A tall man with ruffled brown hair, dressed in a brown suit and a blue shirt, and a beige pair of Chuck Taylors was standing back to back with a red-headed woman dressed in a brown leather coat, a grey top and blue jeans. The two of them had their hands crossed in front of their chests and their right eyebrows were arched. 

I giggled. The two people looked like the best of friends, so happy, so content with having each other. A second later it dawned on me; the man on the photo was the Doctor. It wasn’t MY Doctor, yet it was him. I hadn’t thought of his other incarnations before; he had explained regeneration to me but I had never seen any of his other faces. I suddenly realised that I might come across him and never recognise him.  
Then the fear came crashing. What if he saw me before he was meant to see me? What if I created such a complex paradox that even the Doctor couldn’t fix it? 

I ran towards the mirror and glanced at it.

I had to change my appearance. 

Then it hit me.

*

After a quick trip to a distant grocery shop, I returned to the house. I had decided to spend the night here; I would clear my head and come up with a decent plan. A few things still needed to be done.  
I had dinner and just as I was wondering what to do, I saw a huge pile of letters. The only one that caught my eye, however, was a blue envelope.

A TARDIS blue envelope.

I grabbed the envelope and with shaky hands I tore it open. The messy handwriting was so familiar that it hurt. I felt the tears welling up in my eyes; I was really getting tired of crying but I couldn’t help it. I wiped the tears away with my sleeve and started reading.

_My dearest Pond,_

_It’s been years since I watched them take you away from me; since I stood by your grave. And it doesn’t stop, Pond. The pain just won’t stop. A day doesn’t go by that I don’t miss you.  
I miss your face. I miss your laughter, I miss your voice. I miss your scent. I miss your warmth. I miss you with every fiber in my body. _

_I love you, Amy Pond, I love you and I could never tell you. I was always so afraid. And you looked so happy with Rory. I am a monster, after all, and in fairy tales the princess doesn’t end up with the monster. Instead, she ends up with the brave and loving centurion. The lonely monster is undeserving of love._

_You will never get this letter. You died so long ago but I feel like writing it, and I know it’s foolish to hope that somehow, somehow, the universe will find a way of letting you know just how much I love you, just how much I need you, just how much I miss you and your stupid face.  
I have nightmares about losing you. I lose you every night, someone takes you away from me, someone hurts you, and I wake up screaming and crying your name. And the worst thing is, you’re not there to hold me._

_How am I supposed to live now, Amy? How am I supposed to move on when the only thing I can think about is you? Are you happy? Are you safe and sound? Do you sometimes think about me, too? Do you miss me?_

_I will never know, of course. They took you away from me, the angels. But I guess it’s my fault as well. I let you go, I let you be happy. I was selfless. But right now, as I look at your picture and realise that I will never ever hold you again, I wish I had been selfish, just once._

_I cannot let go of you. Your presence still lingers here, you’re everywhere. I found your tea in the kitchen. Your favourite book was in the console room. I found your blouse in one of the rooms. It smells like you, after all this time._

_I’ve given up travelling. I’ve retired. I cannot do it anymore. I cannot bear seeing one more grave. I cannot bear losing one more person I love._  
Here I am, alone, in the TARDIS, holding on to the things you’ve left behind, refusing to forget you.  
What else? I love you. I love the way you flick your hair. I love your smile. You’re so beautiful that it hurts me. You’re so brave and bold and daring and so smart. I wish I could let you know somehow how important you are. 

_Both my hearts are torn in two, Pond. Because of you. But do you know what?_

_It was worth it. All of it._

_I can stand the pain; the memories I have with you keep me alive, keep me fighting. All I have to do is remember._

_Well, Amy Pond, I guess this is it. I guess this is where our story ends. I guess this is how I say goodbye. Here we are, you and I._

_I love you, Pond. I’ll never get tired of writing it. I wish I could you, but I can’t._

_So, I love, love, love you._

_Goodbye, Pond._

_You’ll be forever in my hearts,_  
Love,  
The Doctor 

_P.S. Gotcha!_

I was on the floor, weeping so hard that I could hardly breathe. I held the letter to my heart as I wailed and wailed, my heart torn in pieces.

“Raggedy man,” I sobbed as I clutched the piece of paper. “Oh, raggedy man, gotcha.”

*

Cardiff, December, 1975

Lurking in the shadows. Creeping. Slowly, angrily, yet patiently chasing. Hiding. Planning. 

A pair of green eyes stared at the wide back of the man in the black coat. A pair of green eyes narrowed, lips pursed. The watcher hissed. Waiting, he was waiting. Watching, remembering. His time would come, sooner or later, and the Doctor would pay. 

The watcher stared at the figure that was now just a black spot in the crowd. The Doctor, too, was hiding, alone, lonely. But now wouldn’t be the right time, no, now wouldn’t hurt. He was all by himself, suffering, and he would greet his death. Now wouldn’t be fun. The watcher preferred to wait, to gain his strength. To listen, to learn. 

The moment would come when the Doctor wouldn’t be alone, when he would be vulnerable and fragile, in love and protective, and willing to sacrifice himself. And when the clock stroke ‘revenge’, the watcher would be there, blood-thirsty. 

He laughed out loud, resting his back against a wall. Passers-by stared at him in fear and disbelief as he laughed at the top of his lungs, triumphantly. His time would come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those who have watched Classic!Who: the watcher at the end of this chapter has nothing to do with the Watcher from the classic episodes.


	4. London, March, 2005

March is a weird month; it’s the time of year when the weather just can’t decide whether it is winter or spring. So it just does whatever it likes. You wake up on a March morning and the sky is perfectly clear, not a single cloud in the sky, and the sun is shining audaciously brightly, and the air is perfectly still. It is all warm and fuzzy, and you feel a sudden burst of energy, and you are awakened for new life. And then, all of a sudden, without even so much as a warning, the sky opens up and before you know it, it’s pouring with rain and lightnings are tearing the grey stormy clouds that are hanging overheads. 

I’ve always liked March. I’ve always felt like March. One minute I could be perfectly calm and joyful, and yet, the other I could be storming and raging for no apparent reason. My days could easily be compared to March days, always so predictably unpredictable. When it came up to me, I was a total surprise.

This particular March day was a warm one. Actually, it was an unnaturally warm day for London, especially at this time of year. There was a slight gentle breeze and puffball white clouds were scattered across the baby blue sky, resembling sheep grazing at weirdly blue grass. The sunrays lazily caressed my skin as little specs of dust, sunlit and the colour of molten gold, danced in the air, an idle, slow and melancholic dance. 

I was sitting on a bench, hoping I wouldn’t draw too much attention, slightly frowning and flicking through a notepad. On this particular March day, my predictably unpredictable temper was completely opposing to the weather. I felt too nervous to sit still; my stomach was tied in knots, my hands were shaking and I felt rather nauseated. A tremendous headache was torturing me; I felt as though a pneumatic hammer was banging on the inside of my skull. 

I let the black trenchcoat I was wearing hand loosely around my shoulders and wondered exactly how insane I was. Travelling through time with the Doctor was exciting; it was crazy, and yet it was breathtaking and daring and… addictive. But travelling alone… travelling alone was madness. Travelling alone was dangerous and unstable, and rather boring at times, particularly when I made no progress in getting information concerning the Doctor’s whereabouts. 

Any of my travels so far had succeeded; I was beginning to think that it was all futile. All the research and disguising, all the pain, all the struggling, and troubles I had gone through up to this day seemed to be all useless. 

I wouldn’t find him; I would never find him, I was doomed to live a live without him. Rather angry, I felt like throwing the stupid notepad away. It contained every weird thing that had happened and that would happen in London in the period 2005 – 2013. This was the result of restless, sleepless nights of researching things that would attract the Doctor, things that would charm him or interest him, or simply things that could indicate where he had been.

His letter had left me with no hope to find his present incarnation but I had created a different plan; I hoped to meet other versions of him, past and future, so that I could understand him better, so that I could figure out this puzzle he had left me with. 

When are you hiding, raggedy man? When are you? Where are you? 

These questions were keeping me up at night in the rare cases in which I actually had a bed to sleep in. 

I shifted uncomfortably; I felt jumpy and edgy, and I was stranger in my own body. I couldn’t recognise myself anymore. I thick layer of makeup covered my face; black mascara and eyeliner and daringly red lipstick. A raven black wig – a bob with a fringe – was covering my boldly red hair. My clothes were all black, a way to blend in with the crowd; I had turned myself into a different person.   
Heaving an extremely annoyed sigh, I stretched and yawned. According to my notes, on this March day in 2005, shop dummies had come to live and had started attacking people. It was too curious, too intriguing for the Doctor to miss it. Why wasn’t he coming? Considering the size of London, it was close to impossible to predict exactly where he would park the TARDIS, but I knew him like the back of my hand. Whenever he took me to London, he would always park on the exactly same spot, so I was there, waiting and praying. 

When I first heard it, I thought I must have imagined it. But it was it. It was the familiar “whoorp” I had come to associate with home. It was the TARDIS. I felt a certain shortness of breath, my palms were sweating and before I could stop myself, I had run in front of the materializing TARDIS.

Panting for breath, I stood there, barely keeping myself upright, and braced myself for meeting this new face, this new Doctor.

The door opened. 

A middle-aged man stepped out of the police box and gave me a rather suspicious look. He was tall and lean, almost entirely bald, and he looked terribly weary. He sported a rather huge nose and a pair of unrealistically big ears. 

But there was something about him, something so…. Doctory in the way he wore his too big leather jacket, in the way he tilted his head, in his deep, sad eyes. It was him, I could feel it in my bones. This man made me feel safe, protected, and even though he wasn’t my raggedy man, he most certainly was my Doctor. The man I had fallen in love with.

“Hello, Doctor,” I grinned, crossing my arms in front of my chest. 

“Hello yourself, goodbye now,” he said, then walked past me. Suddenly, he turned around in a limb flailing way that reminded me too much of the Doctor I knew, and eyed me with suspicion. 

“Who the hell are you?” he asked. A sharp, uninvited pain shot through me. I had heard River talk about this but I had never expected to fully understand her words. But now I knew. I knew what it felt like to meet the man you love with all your heart and hear him ask who you are, and see that you are no one in his eyes. I felt like crying.

“A friend from the future,” I shrugged, trying to sound as though his question hadn’t shattered my heart into a billion pieces. 

The Doctor seemed interested. He approached me, and then stared at me intensely, as though I were a mystery he was trying to solve. 

“Then what are you doing here?” 

“This,” I began, trying to radiate mysteriousness from every fiber of my body, “I can’t tell you.” 

He narrowed his eyes, tilting his head, and I couldn’t help but giggle.

“You look a bit different though. What’s with the ears?”

Seeming quite offended, he ran a hand over his right ear and then rolled his eyes.

“There’s nothing wrong with my ears.”

“Have you actually looked at yourself in a mirror?” I giggled again. “You’re ridiculous. In a good way, I mean. I like it.” 

My cheeks coloured in a shamefully rich shade of scarlet as every cell turned into embarrassment. I shouldn’t have said that. 

A crooked smile, huge and unproportional on his face, stretched his lips. I was just a bit too comfortable with his smile, just a bit too comfortable with him. I didn’t understand how he could look differently but be   
the same man, and yet he was MY Doctor, there was no doubt. I could tell it by the way this goofy smile made me feel, by how ridiculously charming he was. 

“Don’t get me started on your wig,” the Doctor blurted out. “It’s like something died on your head.”

“You actually think you’re funny, don’t you?” I exclaimed and the way he rolled his eyes was much too familiar; the laughter that escaped his lips sounded like a cover of a favourite song. It was so curiously wonderful to be around him.

“No, I think I am hilarious and you must agree with me,” he was already walking away. I knew I shouldn’t. But I followed him. He was tantalizing, he was breathtaking, and underneath this new skin, underneath this sassy attitude, he was the love of my life. 

“Actually, I am fantastic! Fantastic… I like how it sounds. Oooh, it’s fantastically fantastic to say this fantastic word… Must be the teeth… Yes.. I guess it’s the teeth… Oh, fantastic teeth!”

Quite amused, I listened to his monologue, and remembered this same man wanting apples and beans and bacon, and fish fingers and custard. The memory almost made me tear up.

“Still cooking?” I asked sympathetically. 

“Not the word I’d choose but yeah. New body, new me and fantastic new teeth.” 

Then, he grabbed my hand. His touch was different, his hand was rougher and the way he squeezed was different. It was an odd feeling because it was the Doctor and it wasn’t him at the same time. It still confused me and I couldn’t fully understand it, but I squeezed back.

“Come with me,” he asked and his big, sad eyes locked on mine, begging, pleading. I couldn’t say no, not when he was looking at me like this. 

I missed running with the Doctor but we couldn’t really run, not on a busy London street. So we walked, though I could see his impatience. I wondered where we were going: the shop in which the dummies were going to come alive was in the exactly opposite direction.

As though he had read my thoughts, he turned around and looked at me, and then snapped.

“We’re going to a warehouse. An old enemy of mine is doing something I don’t like. It could be very dangerous. And it is very, very bad.”  
During all of my adventures, I had learned one thing about the Doctor: he liked bad; he liked dangerous. That, probably, was one of the main reasons why I loved him. He couldn’t stop himself when it came to trouble and danger. And he always, always had an excuse. It was like a weird mantra to him, one of his favourite quotes from one of his favourite plays, and there were times when he just wouldn’t stop repeating it. So I decided to give it a shot, to prove him he could trust me.

“There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” 

The Doctor cocked his head. 

“Oh, Hamlet. He was a decent guy, I really loved talking to him.”

And then, just like that, he went on, leaving me behind. I ran so that I could catch up with him and then asked him what he had meant.

“Prince Amleth of Denmark. He was a real sweetheart. Took him on one of my travels, he accidentally met Shakespeare, they fell in love and the rest is history… Oh well, it’s a tragedy that is played in the National Theatre every year, but still.”

“Wait, you travelled with Hamlet?”

“Amleth – who inspired the character of Hamlet,” the Doctor explained, then grinned – that goofy, huge smile that made my head spin and my heart beat faster, “Well, he was a much better companion that Miss Big Mouth here.”

“Oh, shut up,” I rolled my eyes at him though I wanted to laugh. He was such an unimaginable dork!

“Make me!”

At this precise moment, as I looked at his ridiculously adorable face, I wanted to push him against a wall and kiss him. He was the Doctor, no matter what, and I was just beginning to realise that it was him, the alien, the lonely monster, that I loved and not just a face, not just a side of him.

But before I had a chance to do anything, he turned left into a narrow dirty street and after a few feet we were standing in front of a huge warehouse. It looked as though no one had been there in decades. The roof had holes in it and the paint on the walls had faded. A nondescript, half-ruined building which, by itself, was a danger. I stared at it for a while, wondering what the Doctor was doing here, which enemy he had been talking about, what the hell was going on. 

The Doctor pulled out his screwdriver and tried to unlock the door but it wouldn’t open. A little bit worried, he looked at the screwdriver, wondering what was wrong. 

“It doesn’t do wood,” I raised an eyebrow.

“I know. But the door isn’t wooden!”

“Um, it actually is.”

“Could you stop being a smartarse for just one second?”

But I ignored him and pulled out a gun – an alpha meson blaster - from the back of my jeans; it was River’s – she loved to leave guns around the house, just in case Rory and I needed protection and I had decided to go on a limb and take one of them with me. It had been a useful decision, after all. I shot at the lock and the door opened with a creepy creaking. 

The Doctor let out a noise which resembled a mixture of a sigh and a groan, and entered the warehouse. Holding the gun in front of my chest, I followed him in.

“What are we looking for?” I asked.

He hesitated before answering, as though he feared the words that were about to come out of his mouth.

“A dalek.”

“I thought they were all dead? The Time War and all that?” I whispered, trying to hide my own fear. If there was one thing that completely terrified me, of all things the Doctor and I had encountered so far, it was the Daleks. There was something about them that made me tremble with unexplainable fear. 

I clutched the blaster even tighter.

“They are cunning and evil, the Daleks are,” the Doctor said, and I could hear, I could smell, I could see, I could taste the hatred in his voice. There was a flame in his eyes, and I knew that I was looking at the Oncoming Storm, at the man who had killed all Daleks and Time Lords, at the man who had blood on his hands and pain in his hearts and who would kill without even blinking. He intimidated me, he scared me, he made me love him even more. He was so hurt, so damaged, and I just needed to fix him.

“It’s a Time Capsule. During the Time War they sent this little buddy here, turned him into a time-bomb. When the right moment comes, this Dalek will turn into a bridge between Gallifrey and the Earth and the Daleks will rise again.”

Come on, I thought. Come on, raggedy man. Save me, save all of us, like you always do. 

“Stop them,” I whispered. I figured out, too late, that I had shown my fear. Of all things in the world, I hated being vulnerable, I hated needing protection. I hated depending on anyone. I could take care of myself.

“Of course I will.” 

The warehouse was a huge, damp and dirty place, filled with barrels. There were rows and columns of barrels, thousands of them. Except for three windows on one of the walls, there was no other source of light, so it was dusky. The air was stale and heavy, sticky, hard to breathe, and the stone floor was covered with a few inches of dust. Cobwebs - silvery, almost invisible, hung from everywhere. A deafening silence drowned the place. Our footsteps and heartbeats were the only sounds that destroyed the idyllic, mysteriously scary peace of the warehouse. 

The Dalek was hidden between the barrels, quiet and immobile, dusty, covered in webs. 

“Doc-tooor,” it spoke when the Doctor approached it. But even as the words poured out of him, it looked pretty much dead. Except or its speech, the Dalek showed no other signs of life. “You will be exterminaaated. Earth will kneel before the great race of Daaaleks. We will return, Doc-tooor. We will retuuurn. You shall not stop us, Doc-toor.”

The hand in which I was steadily holding the gun was trembling. I tried to calm down.

“You’re speaking very boldly for someone who is going to be dead soon,” the Doctor pointed out but I could see that he was slightly shaking, his eyes drowned in a memory long gone.

“You may kill me, Doc-toor. But there are otheeers. You will not stop the Daleeeeeks. We will rise agaaain, Doc-toor.”

“Step back,” I heard myself saying. The Doctor had approached the Dalek but my voice took him out of his trance and he, mainly because he was taken aback, did exactly what I had told him. 

I raised my gun; I wasn’t trembling anymore. I had feared the Daleks for too long. This one here dared threaten my Doctor, my planet, and I was not going to stand and watch helplessly. I aimed for the eye stalk and pulled the trigger. Whoever had sent the Dalek here had thought very well of its protection. After a deafening and blinding explosion, it was still unharmed.

“That was some great defense.”

“Are you alright, Doctor?”

“Yes, I am- You saved my life.”

“I did?”

“This was a mechanism, designed to stop anyone who tried to do harm to the Dalek. Cunning.”

Before the Doctor could say anything else, I raised the alpha meson blaster and shot the Dalek once again. This time, there was no defense. The Dalek exploded in flames; parts of it shot in the air and the Doctor and I ducked, trying to protect ourselves from the flying Dalek parts. 

I lay on the dusty floor, breathing hard, still assimilating what I had just done. I knew that if I were to stand up, I would most certainly be unable to keep myself upright.   
I felt the Doctor’s hand on my shoulder. He kept me get on my feet and wrapped himself around me. He smelled differently: of leather and war and anger, but the warmth of his body was he encircled me was the same and I savoured in the safety of his embrace. He held me tightly, rocking me back and forth.

“I don’t like guns,” he finally let me go and gave me a judging look.

“I know,” I shrugged.

“Oh dear, do I even like you?”

“Yes, you do.”

“Oh well…” he sighed. “Yes, I do.”

*

We were standing by the TARDIS as the dying sun slowly crawled down the sky. 

“Come with me, travel with me,” the Doctor said, his voice filled with hope.

“I will, some day. But not now.”

“When?”

“As a friend of ours likes to say, Doctor, spoilers.” I smiled at him even though the memory of River hurt. I didn’t want to leave him but I knew I couldn’t stay either. 

“Will I see you again before we officially meet?” 

“I promise,” I whispered and our eyes met, and I knew that this was a promise I couldn’t break.

He entered the TARDIS and waved goodbye.

“Wait,” I called out. He wasn’t supposed to be here for the Dalek. I had to warn him about the dummies.

“What is it, mysterious future friend of mine?” 

 

“I know from a reliable source that a few shop dummies will come to life tonight, at Henrik’s Department Store. You’d better do something.”

“How do you-“

I waved my notepad at him with a shy smile.

“I did my homework. Goodbye for now, Doctor. You’ll be seeing me again.” 

He didn’t stop me as I walked away.

**Author's Note:**

> I know the first chapter is rather short but it's just a starter.


End file.
